


We'll Make It Enough

by Laurali_fangirl_of_221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurali_fangirl_of_221b/pseuds/Laurali_fangirl_of_221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry relapses and moves into 221b to recover. Old and tensions brew between Harry and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Make It Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Huge Shoutout to Bman for being an awesome Beta!

Sherlock burst through the doors of the hospital waiting. “John,” he immediately rushed to his lover who was sitting in the chair, his head bent, his eyes puffy.

“Wow.” John exhaled deeply, “You got here fast.”

“You asked me to come.” Sherlock said simply. “How is she?”

“She’s alright now. It was a mixture of pills and alcohol, the house sitter found her. She was supposed to leave for a business trip on Monday.” “Clara got engaged.”

John sighed. “Yeah.”

“You haven’t seen her.”

“No. She’s asleep.”

The nurse came in then, “John Watson? Your sister’s awake. Groggy, but awake. You can have five minutes. But, she needs her rest. The doctor would like to talk to you afterwards.”

John turned to Sherlock. “I’ll wait out here,” Sherlock offered. 

“Thanks,” John smiled weakly and squeezed his hand.

***

The hospital room was a dull yellow. John found it horribly depressing and thought it would be such a dreary place to wake up after a bout of manic depressive drinking. Harry was propped up in bed, looking tired and ragged. Her brunette hair was a mess, her face puffy and sad looking. 

“John,” her voice was exhausted. 

“Harry,” his voice cracked. He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m so glad you’re still here.” The unspoken words “I’m so glad you’re not dead” rang out through the silence. 

Harry’s eyes closed for a few seconds and then she looked at him. “Have they tried to convince you to ship me off to rehab yet?”

“Not quite,” John mumbled as he sat down. “But I assume that’s next. Err- Harry it might be a good idea--”

“So they can patronize me and have me talk about my feelings?” Harry’s voice was frigid. “John, you know I don’t do well in those places. Besides, I doubt there are any that will have me.”

“We’ll find one.” John said through his teeth. If you don’t get kicked out of that one too, he added in his head.

The nurse came in, all business. “Five minutes are up,” she stopped by the door, “Ms. Watson needs to rest.” She ushered John out the door to a doctor waiting in the hall in a white coat and stethoscope. “Hello, Mr. Watson,” he shook John’s hand,“My name is Dr. Elbort. I want to talk to you about your sister. Walk with me.”

“How is she?” John asked anxiously. 

“Frankly, not well. Your sister is very depressed and we are unsure whether the mixing of alcohol and sleeping pills was accidental or suicidal.”

John stopped and turned to him. “What? No, she couldn’t have…”

“Unfortunately, I think she did intend to end her life. Has something happened recently, that would explain this attempt? She refused to talk to our psychologist.”

“Yes,” John massaged his temples with his hands. “Yeah, her ex-wife just got engaged.” 

“Ahh, yes that could very possibly be the trigger. Mr. Watson, I think perhaps Harriet should be placed into rehab immediately.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “She’s been before. Let me make some calls. When should we tell her? I would prefer to be there when you break the news.”

“Certainly. Tell the nurse when you’re ready and she’ll page me.”

John walked back to Sherlock in the waiting room. He was lazily reading People Magazine, his face scrunched up in disbelief. “People actually read this rubbish?” He asked incredulously.

“Apparently.” John sat next to him. “They think it was a suicide attempt.” His voice cracked and a tear ran down his face. “They think she was trying to kill herself. They want to put her into therapy.”

“I’ll call Mycroft. He has a list of places, from my previous relapses. I’m sure he can find a place specializing in alcoholism and painkillers.” 

“Not yet,” John sat back and stared at Sherlock. “Harry’s been through quite a few places. She hated rehab and always managed to get herself kicked out of most of them. The doctor and I are going to talk to her.”

Sherlock looked at him concerned. “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“Thanks. Wait don’t you have the case?”

“You’re more important.”

John blushed and kissed Sherlock right there in the waiting room, in front of the nurses station, not caring if anyone saw them. 

John sat down next to Harry, the doctor sat next to John completing the triangle.

“Harriet, after some time and discussion, we decided that perhaps the best course of action is rehab. We want to help you through this and we want you to get better.”

“I won’t go,” Harriet said stubbornly, “You can’t make me.” She then winced realizing how childlike that sounded. 

“Harry, you need help,” John said, “I’m sorry but I love you too much to let you self-destruct.”

The doctor smiled encouragingly, “It really is for the best.”

“I’ll just get kicked out,” Harry insisted.

“Just try Harry. Please. For me,” John squeezed her hand. 

The pushy nurse came into the room, “I must insist that Ms. Watson get her rest.”

“Yes,” The doctor stood and looked at his clipboard, “You can be discharged tomorrow, as soon as you have a plan.” He looked pointedly at John. 

“Working on it,” John muttered, “Rest up Harry,” he kissed her forehead again before leaving the room with the doctor.

Sherlock was on the phone talking frustratedly to someone who could only be Mycroft, “There must be someplace better than that. Mycroft, it’s for John. Please, do this one thing, if not for him then for me. Try to remember all the times he’s saved my life.”

John smiled and coughed. 

Sherlock turned around and saw him standing there. He blushed, “Got to go. John’s here. Call me back when you have news.”

“The only place that would take her is an outpatient facility, here in London,” Sherlock explained, “And that’s with Mycroft’s influence. Your sister has made quite a name for herself in the rehab industry.”

John grimaced. 

The doctor frowned and shook his head, “Your sister mustn’t be left alone. She needs someone to watch her at nights, someone to be around.”

“I’ll stay with her,” John suggested.

“No, it sounds like her apartment has too many memories of her ex-wife,” The doctor explained, “Plus, she knows her apartment better than you do. There’s too many places for her to hide pills and alcohol.”

“She could stay with us,” Sherlock suggested, “Mrs. Hudson could look in on her during the days. She always has been overly curious about Harry.” “Perhaps,” The doctor sounded doubtful, “You’re flat would need to be clean of all drugs and alcohol.”

“We can make that happen,” John said looking at Sherlock who nodded. John thought about it and it made sense. Harry hated rehab facilities and 221b could offer fairly constant supervision. Harry wouldn’t have to be mad at John for shipping her off to rehab again. And, John realized, he really missed his sister.

“She can’t go back to her apartment either,” The doctor added, “I’m worried that might set her recovery back. If one of you could go pick up some clothes?”

“Alright,” John took out his phone and looked at the time. 

“No,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat, “I’ll go. You stay with her. Then I’ll pick you up and we’ll go back to Baker street and make sure everything is suitable.” “But how will you know what clothes and---”

“Deduction,” Sherlock smiled and kissed John on the cheek. “Stay. I can tell you want to,” he whispered in John’s ear.

“Thanks,” John gave him a grateful look and turned to the doctor, “What time will she be discharged tomorrow?” 

The next morning, John and Sherlock caught a cab to the hospital at eleven. The ride was quiet, John fiddled with the hem of his sandy colored jumper, feeling each stitch, searching for an imperfection. It was his favorite jumper, Harry sent it to him his first Christmas in Afghanistan. It had reminded him of home ever since. He wondered if Harry would even remember. John turned his head and caught Sherlock staring at him. Sherlock averted his eyes and laced his fingers ahead, staring at the back of the cabbie’s head. Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket with his free hand. John looked at him questioningly. “Mycroft,” Sherlock said shortly. 

“Is everything alright?” John asked, tilting his head trying to read Sherlock’s expression.

“Fine,” Sherlock said breezily, putting his phone away without bothering to send a reply.

John leaned against the window and furrowed his brow in thought. He wondered how many times it had been Mycroft in the car on his way to the hospital, wondered how many middle of the night phone calls Mycroft had gotten, wondered how many referrals to rehabs he’d gone through, all for Sherlock. 

At the hospital, they were greeted by a pushy nurse, although a different nurse then the day before who walked them wordless to Harry’s room. Harry was sitting up, looking stronger than the day before but still a bit worse-for-wear. “Did you bring my clothes?” She asked brightly, too brightly for occasion. Her cheeriness was a poor attempt to mask her obvious exhaustion. Sherlock stepped into the room and silently handed over the bag.

Harry pulled out black yoga pants and a purple hoodie along with underwear and a purple bra. “Oi, so you must be Sherlock then,” She said distrustfully looking at the clothes spread out in front of her. 

“Yes.” 

“How’d you know to bring my favorite pants and hoodie?” Harry asked curiously although slightly belligerently. 

“The amount of wear on the seams, as well as the slight fade to the yoga pants suggests frequent wear, although there was no workout clothes in your apartment. That suggests preference over athletic purpose,” Sherlock fired off effortlessly. 

Harry warily looked at him and said, “So you’re a genius then? It’s true? All of it, the blog I mean?”

“Of course,” John stepped forward defensively without thought.

Harry looked pensive and got up, collecting the clothes and walked to the bathroom to change. 

The pushy nurse of the day insisted Harry use the wheelchair on her way out, something Harry didn’t stop grumbling about until all three of them climbed into the waiting cab.

No one said much of anything on the way back to Baker Street, John kept waiting for Harry to mention the jumper but she never did. Perhaps she’d forgotten? The thought of that made his insides churn in sadness. 

Sherlock bounded up the stairs two at a time, closely tailed by Harry and John, and pushed the door open elegantly. John hung up his coat and saw the tea and biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left out on the coffee table. Bless her. John thought to himself as he gestured around the flat, showing it to Harry. 

“So err, this is the sitting room, obviously, there’s the kitchen, next to that’s the loo,” he strode down the hallway, “That’s Sherlock’s room and up here,” he climbed the steep steps to the top and pushed open the creaky door, “This is my room, but you’ll stay here.”

“Nonsense,” said Harry, “I can’t take your bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“No really,” John pressed, “Sherlock is up at odd hours and likes to think on the sofa. It’s fine, we’ll make do.” He coughed trying to stop the blush at the back of his ears from spreading.

Harry raised her eyebrows, “I’m sure you will.” She winked.

John cringed, “Don’t you dare--”

“No, no,” Harry continued. “But tell me this,” her tone was mischievous and her eyebrows wiggled, “Are you shagging?”

“Remind me again why you’re not at Sunshine Meadows Rehabilitation Facility in Brighton,” John grit his teeth, “Oh right, your dear brother took you in-”

“Alright, alright,” Harry put up her left hand in surrender and turned to survey the room. 

“Sherlock got all your favorite clothes and toiletries from your apartment,” John said proudly stepping back, “I’ll let you get settled.” 

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep. She pulled out her phone and pulled up Clara’s Facebook page. Clara’s cover photo was of her and her new finance. He was very attractive, a high class lawyer with a big house in central London. According to the information on the side of the page, a date for the wedding had just been set. Harry always knew that Clara was bisexual, it had never bothered her before now, and Harry realized that she would be just as upset if Clara was engaged to a woman. Still, the fact that she had moved on to a guy, made the whole thing seem so permanent. So incredibly finished. A tear fell onto her smartphone’s screen, and Harry hit the home button waited for her phone to go dark. She stared into the blackness on the ceiling, her eyes adjusted back to the darkness and she saw that the ceiling was sagging to the left of her head. 

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock’s side of the bed was empty. There was however a text from him waiting on John’s phone. 

_Geoff called with a possible lead, resuming work on the case. Call me if you need me. -SH_

John smiled involuntarily,realizing that Geoff was actually Greg. Jesus. Sherlock had known the man for years and he still didn’t know his name. John scrubbed his eyes, threw on his black dressing gown and crept quietly up the stairs to Harry’s room, trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson downstairs. 

He stopped by her door and inched it open quietly. She was still fast asleep, curled up in his chocolate duvet with her hair braided into a side-braid sleeping like she had been when he had last checked on her, around midnight of last night. In her sleep, she looked younger, almost as she had when they were both teenagers and the last time they had seen each other this much, he sadly remembered standing in the doorway. 

Harry stirred in her sleep and John quietly inched the door closed and proceeded to the kitchen where he reached for the rag behind the sink out of habit. Just then, John’s phone buzzed again,

_Yes. I wiped off the cooking surfaces in the kitchen. Poisoning averted. -SH_

John shook his head, that man really is amazing. He pulled open the fridge and promptly shut it again at the sight of an arm wrapped in plastic on the side of the fridge and took a deep breathe. He reached for his phone and deftly typed,

_What about the ARM in the fridge? Sherlock are you trying to give me a heart attack?_

The response was immediate.

_Sorry. Forgot about the arm. Although I think it’s actually just a wrist and hand. -SH_

John rolled his eyes, braced himself and opened the fridge lightening fast and pulled out the carton of eggs and milk. To his unfortunate not-surprise, the gallon was almost empty. He started to scramble the eggs and put the kettle on to boil. The clock on the wall said 7:30. He had to get Harry up at 7:45 if they wanted to make it to her therapy and outpatient rehab by 9:00. The kettle whistled and John poured two cups of English Breakfast. Normally Sherlock and John both preferred Earl Grey, but English Breakfast was Harry’s favourite. Or at least, it had been the last time she came to tea, but it had been quite a while.

He walked back to his room and opened the door, with a cup of tea in one hand. “Harry,” He said softly shaking her slightly, “It’s time to get up. We have to get to your appointment.”

“Piss off,” Harry moaned rolling over. 

John forced a smile, “Harry. c’mon. Up you get. Get dressed. I made eggs and toast for breakfast.”

“No,” Harry grumbled, “Seriously. Piss off.”

John set the cup of tea down on the nightstand, “Harry. I’m not kidding. If you miss your appointment the doctors and I agreed it’s off to Brighton.” God what their mum had put up with all through Harry’s teenage years. Bless her.

“I’m getting up,” Harry yawned, starting to roll over. She looked at John. 

“Oh right,” he looked at the door, “I’ll let you get dressed then. We leave in a half hour.” He shot her a pointed look. 

“Alright, alright,” she exclaimed tersely waving her right hand at him as she took a sip of tea with her left.

That afternoon, John left the clinic early to go pick up Harry from her outpatient therapy. He stopped by Sarah’s office on his way out. “Thanks for covering for me this week.” 

Sarah looked up and smiled. “Any time. How’s your sister?”

“Moody. Otherwise she seems okay,” John continued, “But I don’t really know, we’re not that close.”

Sarah nodded and looked back at the file she was reading, “Text me if you need anything John, really.”

“Thanks, you’re the best,” John smiled gratefully before ducking out.

Harry didn’t speak on the way home on the tube, she just stared at the blackness flying by. When John did try to get her to talk, she answered in as few monosyllabic words as humanly possible. John decided to leave her alone. His phone lit up.

_Solved the case. Sleeping. -SH_

John smiled, Harry saw this out of the corner of her eye and shook her head, knowing it must have been Sherlock. 

_One for the blog?  
-JW_

There was no response,Sherlock must already be passed out, John thought to himself and he smiled as the train screeched to a stop. “This is Baker Street Station,” piped the cheery generic announcer, “Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

That night, Sherlock was still asleep, John and Harry ate soup that Mrs. Hudson had left in the refrigerator, next to the opaque container clearly labeled “ARM” (John and Sherlock agreed Sherlock would put all experiments in filmy, clearly labeled containers) and then Harry excused herself to her room. She was exhausted, but sleep would not come. Finally, around eleven, she felt herself starting to doze…

The melancholy sound of a violin awoke her. Harry growled and shoved her pillow over her ears. Still, all she could hear was that violin. She rolled over and groaned at the time. “It’s two-fucking-thirty in the morning!” She screamed hauling herself out of bed and down the stairs, to the sitting room, following the sound of the music.

Sherlock was standing in front of the window by the fireplace playing a violin, his blue dressing gown flapping in the breeze of the open window. His eyes were closed and the look on his face was one of serene concentration.

“HOW IS ANYONE SUPPOSE TO SLEEP WITH THAT RUCKUS!” Harry shrieked, ”It’s enough to drive anyone insane!”

Sherlock turned around, noticing Harry standing there for the first time. “It helps me think,” he spoke quietly, his fingers stilled but the bow still poised in the air. He turned back to the window, resuming the song. 

“What’ve you got to THINK about at two in the morning?” Harry interjected angrily.

Just then there was a creak of an opening door and the stumble of sleepy feet down the hallway. John stumbled into the room. “Is everything alright?” He asked blearily, “I heard shouting.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sounded bored.

“How on earth do you sleep with that noise?” Harry half-shouted.

John looked at the violin in Sherlock’s hand. “Er,” he began running his hands through his hair, “I guess I just got used to it.”

“Well it’s driving me insane!”

“Sherlock, remember the rules we had about playing at odd hours when I first moved in?” John asked tiredly,“Could we maybe temporarily reinstall them? That would be lovely.”

“Fine,” Sherlock let an annoyed dramatic puff of air escape his mouth, “God I need a cigarette.”

“And I need a drink,” screeched Harry before storming back to her room. 

“No,” John’s eyes darted between Sherlock and the place where Harry had been standing. “No,” he pointed to Sherlock, “We, in 221b, will not be having anything even vaguely addicting tonight.” 

Sherlock shrugged and threw himself on the sofa, resuming his thinking pose as John hurried after Harry. 

Over the next few days, the three of them settled into a comfortable routine. John made breakfast and went into the clinic, Sherlock escorted Harry to therapy, then John picked her up on his way home. Harry spent her nights reading. (John and Sherlock owned a surprising amount of books.) John or Mrs. Hudson cooked or Sherlock picked up takeaway. John did paperwork and worked on the blog, Sherlock thought or conducted strange experiments on a pile of human hair in the kitchen.

This went on for about a week, John thought everything was fine, but Sherlock and Harry knew otherwise. Harry wasn’t sleeping and would lie awake crying and thinking of Clara. Sherlock knew this from the creaking of the ceiling, the sound of Harry tossing and turning, a sound he had become accustomed to when John first moved in.

Two weeks after Harry moved in, she witnessed the first domestic between John and Sherlock. It was the late afternoon, John and Harry had just got in. Sherlock had been in all day, thinking on the sofa, still in his dressing gown. Everything seemed normal until John went to make a cuppa tea. 

“Sherlock?” He called opening the fridge, “Did you get the milk yesterday like I texted you to?”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Sherlock replied, sitting up. 

“Of course it did,” John sighed deeply, the annoyance ebbing deep into his voice. “I’ll be back!” He yelled over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. Harry looked over at Sherlock, who looked anything but slightly guilty, pulling out his phone to text. 

Harry opened the cupboard above her head looking for biscuits. Instead she found very expired dog treats. She groaned. “Why on earth do you have dog treats in the cupboard that expired two years ago?”

“Probably from Mary.”

“Mary?”

“The foster puppy John had after I,” Sherlock chose his words carefully, “After I, went away.”

“After you left,” Harry accused. 

“Yes.” Sherlock picked up the newspaper and opened it to the crime section. 

“Do you love him?” Harry blurted.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied lowering the paper, looking at her, his eyes wild with suspicion, “Absolutely.”

“But, what about when that’s not enough?” Harry thought of Clara, “Because it won’t be enough. It never is. You’ll drift apart. There will be times when he’s not enough for you and you’re not enough for him because nobody is enough for anyone,” Harry fled to her room. Sherlock just stared at the place where she had been standing, his eyes glassy, scared, and broken. His greatest fear had been articulated. 

John climbed into bed that night and turned to Sherlock. “Are you alright?” He asked softly sizing up his lover’s profile, “You’ve been acting strange since I came back from getting the milk.”

“Fine,” Sherlock’s voice was clipped.

John took one hand and brushed Sherlock’s curls over his forehead. “I’m sorry I was cross,” he whispered gently, “I was just frustrated. I love you.” He smiled tracing his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“But what if that’s not enough?” Sherlock curled into a ball, hugging his knees.

John pulled his hand back, surprised, “What are you on about?”

“What if love isn’t enough?” 

“Are you daft?” John asked before realizing that was a mistake and wincing If there was one thing Sherlock hated, it was when people called him stupid. Luckily, Sherlock seemed to wrapped up in worry to notice John’s faux pas. 

John pulled Sherlock close and whispered in his ear, “We’ll make it enough.” He leaned in to kiss behind Sherlock's ear.

“Promise?” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the contact.

“Absolutely,” John smiled and kissed his high functioning sociopath on the mouth.

Sherlock smiled through the kiss, reaching for his army doctor.

That night, the phone rang at three a.m. Sherlock woke up first and shook John awake. There was fear in John’s eyes as he threw on his coat over his pajamas and Sherlock called a cab. The whole scene was eerily similar to the night a week and a half before, when the first call came. This time though, the call was from Harry’s cell phone, not the hospital, thank God.

Harry was propped up on the barstool, when John entered. The bartender took one look at him and said, “Oh thank God! You’re the brother?” John nodded, “She came in here two hours ago, ordered some shots and then refused to leave at closing, even when I offered to call her a cab. Then she started crying and kept saying ‘Call John, my brother, you have to call him,’ so I called you from her cell. You were the only John,” he added.

“Thank you for your trouble,” John said shortly, hauling Harry to her feet, slipping a five pounder into the man’s hand. 

John was silent the whole way home. Harry reeked of whiskey and said nothing, just stared glassy-eyed out the window.

The next day, Harry rose and got ready for her meeting without any prompting, moving like a cat, hoping not to wake John or Sherlock. John was already up and making breakfast. Harry moved silently around him and put the kettle on and grabbed three mugs and tea bags. She turned to John, but he refused to meet her eyes. She stared at him, willing him to turn his head and look at her. 

The kettle started to boil, so she poured the tea and sat at the table. They ate in an uncomfortable silence. When Sherlock burst into the kitchen, “A case!” He skidded passed the table and clapped his hands. Harry hadn’t seem him this excited in, well, ever. Sherlock turned to face John, “You coming?”

“No,” John sighed, “I’ll sit this one out. You go ahead. Tea?” he gestured to the untouched mug on the kitchen table.

“Harry made it.” Sherlock observed casually.

“How did you-?” Harry looked confused.

“John always insists on only putting one sugar in mine when he makes it, always the doctor he is, despite my outspoken love of two and a half sugars and despite the explicit instructions on the chart by the sink.” Sherlock gestured to the Sherlock likes TWO sugars sign above the sink. T(he chart also had John’s preferred tea choice as well, milk, no sugar.) “Mrs. Hudson indulges me but she had a doctors appointment this morning, routine checkup and the tea is hot, as is the mug--”

_Buzzz._ Sherlock’s phone lit up, as did his face, “The crime scene calls,” He winked at John as he grabbed his coat and swung it around his back and slid into it.

“Wow,” Harry set down her tea mug obviously impressed, “I can see why you like him. I mean if I went for blokes then-”

“Don’t,” John broke in glaring at her from the top of his eggs.

“Oh, so now you’re acknowledging my presence?” Harry mused, “By the way, I wouldn’t recommend you use that facial expression ever again. You look positively ill.”

“Do you actually think because you made tea this morning everything is just alright?” John’s tone was borderline dangerous, “Do you really think that?”

Harry bristled, “I’m an addict John, not some rebellious teenager.”

“Really? Because it seems like you just don’t give a shit Harry,” John crossed his arms, “Not about your job, not about your friends, certainly not about me, your brother, who got back from serving in Afghanistan for fucks sake, and definitely not about getting sober.”

“Do you think it was easy having a brother who was in Afghanistan?” Harry bristled, “The worrying, and the way my pulse would race whenever Afghanistan was in the news because God knows there was never any good news about that misadventure.”

“Try actually fighting it,” John got quiet, “The other mates would get packages from home, you know little bits of things to show they had people who cared about them-”

“I sent you a package.” 

“One Christmas, a sweater and single sentence,” John turned his head, “I was there for four years Harry. You barely showed an interest, even when I got shot.”

“Clara and I had just broken up, John. Where were you when my marriage was in trouble? Besides, I did come see you in when you were in rehab.”

“For ten minutes,” John yelled, “Just enough to unload your phone.”

“Well, where were you when I came out to Mum and Dad and got kicked out?” Harry screamed back. “All you did was stand quietly by as they kicked me out!” 

“There was nothing I could have done!” John spit out, “Don’t even try to pin that on me. There was no changing their minds.”

“You didn’t even try!” Harry cried, “You did nothing! Went on living your life as if nothing happened! As if you never even cared about me!”

“What was I supposed to do?” John asked. 

“Call me. Find me,” Harry was crying now, “Make sure I was okay!”

“I was thirteen!” John protested.

“Don’t act like it was just that one time!” hissed Harry. “You distanced yourself from me that day forward, never once speaking up for me around Mum and Dad.”

“They came around.”

“You call referring to my girlfriends as ‘the live-in woman,’ as if she was my maid, coming around.”

“You didn’t want me in your life, you were always drunk when I came round anyway.”

“No, you don’t want me in yours!” Tears streamed down Harry’s face, “You’re busy with Sherlock and the blog and your life.” She sank down the side of the wall to the floor, I’m busy with nothing, Clara was my whole life, and she’s moved on.”

“Sometimes people bounce back,” John said more gently, his anger dissipating, “I did. With Sherlock/ But sometimes, most times, they don’t. You have to build your life around more than one person because when they leave, it shatters.”

“It’s just so hard,” Harry sniffled, “My little brother has always been better at life.” She laughed quietly.

John chuckled and slid down next to her, “Not really. Sherlock, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and my therapist put me back together when I break.”

Harry looked at her hands, “I guess I need people to put me back together.”

John looked thoughtful, “Maybe I could I be one? Perhaps we could have another go at this brother-sister thing?”

Harry chuckled and blew her nose in her napkin, “That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

John pulled out his phone, “We are now officially, extremely late for your meeting.” He got to his feet and offered a hand to Harry, “We’re good?”

Harry nodded tentatively and brushed off the back of her jeans, “We’re good.”

That night, Sherlock was in his thinking pose, Harry was reading in Sherlock’s chair and John was working on clinic paperwork. Silence pervaded over the room, punctuated only by the scribble of pen and the occasional turn of a page. Unlike silences in nights past, this was a comfortable silence, not passive aggressive. Sherlock stuck out his hand, “Mobile.”

John handed it to him, hardly looking up. Harry watched this exchanged from the chair, bemused, “Does he do that a lot?”

“What?”

“Order you about?” Harry spoke slyly. 

John’s only response was a long look over the top of his glasses.

“You should give him a break,” John spoke quietly after a few more minutes had passed. 

“Why should I?” Harry asked defiantly, “He hurt you. He left you for two whole years, John.” 

“I’ve forgiven him.”

“Well I haven’t. You can’t hurt my baby brother and expect to get off that easy.”

“He’s saved my life countless times,” argued John taking off his reading glasses. 

“For that I am grateful,” Harry spoke unapologetically, “But being grateful and liking someone are two very different scenarios.”

“Not necessarily mutually exclusive.”

“Still,” She said turning the page of her book, “Give it time, John.”

“Well try not to go around scaring him like you did the other night,” John put his glasses back on and seriously looked at her, “Yes, I know about that. Sherlock’s insecure about his competency at relationships you know and tapping into his fear that love may not be enough was below the belt.”

"I doubt I could scare him off,” Harry closed her book, “That man is very keen on you, John. Besides, isn’t that everybody’s fear? That love may not be enough?”

“We’ll make it enough,” John looked over at Sherlock and smiled.

“Can’t he hear us?” Harry gestured to Sherlock’s long figure sprawled out on the couch.

“Nope. He’s in his mind palace.”

“What?”

“

Sherlock’s place of higher thinking, his mental library of information.”

Just then, Sherlock sprung up to a sitting position. “That’s it!” He yelled picking up his phone from his chest, dialing the numbers frantically.

“Lestrade. It was the hamster. Yes the hamster. In his wheel, she tripped, Lestrade. Tripped. Do try to keep up. The hamster and his wheel are probably in the linen closet that’s door was ajar. Dead most likely, it’s been a week and a half.” He listened for a bit.

Harry wrinkled her nose at John. ‘What the fuck,’ she mouthed, but John had eyes only for Sherlock, his energy was intoxicating. 

Sherlock hung up and collapsed onto the sofa, “Is there any food?” He breathed, “I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

“Chinese takeaway?” John suggested.

“Fantastic,” Sherlock smiled at John, “Another one for your blog?”

John grinned, “Hamster wheel killer? Definitely.”

“Honestly.” Harry rolled her eyes, “You could start a fire with the heat between you two.” She left the room and padded to the kitchen for a glass of water. When she came back, John and Sherlock were sitting suspiciously close together and John’s hair was incredibly mussed. 

“Guess that answers that question I asked you when I first came to stay,” Harry surmised smugly. Sherlock looked confused and John shot Harry a 'Don’t you even dare' stare.

John left quickly to get the takeaway, he kissed Sherlock’s cheek and nudged Harry’s hand on the way out and shook his head in warning, Harry crossed her heart, their childhood sign of an understood promise.

Sherlock looked at her after the door shut, “I knew you didn’t much like me,” He shrugged. 

“You were...” Harry’s mouth was open, “I thought you were in your mind palace.”

“Not for the last ten minutes,” Sherlock admitted. 

“You hurt John,” Harry tried to explain. 

“You did too,” Sherlock pointed out.

They both grimaced and lapsed into an awkward silence. Harry was the one who broke it, “So we’re both shit then.”

“Yup,” Sherlock said accentuating the 'P' and nodding, satisfied with this new equality. 

John came back in carrying bags of take-out, smelling of miso and padti. Sherlock got up and smiled, helping John with his coat. Harry grabbed three glasses and bowls from the part of the kitchen counter marked “STERILIZED.” John, Sherlock, and Harry sat around the coffee table eating quietly, unlike the silences of the week previous, it was a comfortable silence. 

When they had finished, Sherlock sat back against the sofa and sighed, “How about a game of Cluedo?” He asked innocently. John sent him a warning look but Harry had already fallen into his trap. “Sure,” she got up to grab the board from the shelf, “I always wondered if you guys ever played.”

Sherlock went to get the game and to his surprise, Harry was much much better than anyone he had ever played. They played long into the night, even after John had forfeited. John sat back watching Sherlock's face scrunch in frustration and Harry's face break into a triumphant smirk. She had won.

And in those moments, those quiet moments shared in 221b, John knew it would be enough.
    
    
    The End


End file.
